


like vast cracked ice

by likecharity



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Fear, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It makes a strange sort of sense in Reid's mind—giving Nathan a way to express his urges in a controlled environment—but he knows it's not sensible, knows that at best he's just prolonging the inevitable and at worst, giving Nathan an even stronger appetite for something he's lusted after for years. And there's nothing to say he'll stop at this.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	like vast cracked ice

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, wow, WHAT IS THIS. Incredibly fucked up and much longer than I intended it to be, but I ship these two a ridiculous amount. First time writing fic for this fandom!

"Do you trust me?" Nathan asks. His voice cracks, and Reid knows it's because he wants _so badly_ for the answer to be yes.

But Reid can't give him what he wants. Not what he truly wants. In fact, Nathan Harris can never have what he wants most in the world, because that will put him in prison, possibly on death row. And Reid can't trust him, because he knows this, knows that no matter how much a secret part of him has hope, his intellect is stronger, and even without his extensive psychological knowledge of People Like Nathan, it's really just common sense not to put your trust in a person who has homicidal urges.

Reid shakes his head, and drops his eyes so he doesn't have to see the way Nathan's face falls. In another situation, he might be rattling off statistics, explaining away his lack of trust as a built-in human attribute, the need for survival. But he's quiet, because he knows that Nathan won't see it that way no matter what he says, and because there's no need, at this point—trust or not, he's here, he's doing this. Or rather, letting Nathan do this. To him.

He shivers, then, from the cool air of the room on his bare skin, and maybe something more.

"I want you to trust me," Nathan says, in a small, hollow voice. His hand is cold on Reid's knee. "I don't—" He cuts himself off. Reid wonders whether he was going to say _I don't want to hurt you_ , and almost smiles at the thought.

"It doesn't matter," he hears himself say. "You need this." 

It sounds, maybe just a little bit, like a question, and Reid hates himself for that. Hates that he still hopes, against all odds, that they were all wrong about Nathan, that he's just confused, can turn things around, grow out of it perhaps. That maybe one of the reasons he's willing to do this is because it might make Nathan realise this isn't what he wants after all.

But that doesn't make sense. He can't back it up with facts, can't think of a single case study to support this theory. People may change, but urges like this—they don't. They don't just vanish. And so all of his thoughts are fuelled by _emotion_ , and he can't stand that. 

Nathan nods, rapid and sure but a little ashamed, not looking Reid in the eye. Reid's heart sinks, despite himself. He tries to tell himself he's doing a good thing, a sensible thing. He saved Nathan's life, so he holds some responsibility if others lose theirs as a result. And, like Gideon said, it's only a matter of time. Nathan cannot suppress his violent urges, and without an outlet, he will give into them. They tried, at the institution, to distract him—tried to find a way for him to channel his needs in some healthy way, but nothing worked. He left the place after spending about two years there, and, Reid has to admit, doesn't seem all that different for it.

They met up a few times for coffee after Nathan was discharged, which Reid told himself was okay—he'd had a personal interest in Nathan right from the start; it was normal for him to want to check up on the kid. And then Nathan asked if he could see where Reid lived, and Reid knew that was probably the point where he should have reeled things in, but at this point he still thought maybe Nathan was doing better, and that there was nothing strictly wrong with the two of them being friends. But after that, Nathan began showing up at Reid's late at night, claiming at first to have been in the neighbourhood, later admitting he'd been on his aimless nocturnal wanders again and ended up there (which, Reid thought, was at least better than where those wanders used to take him, to streets full of prostitutes to watch and fantasise about murdering). 

They would always talk in Reid's bedroom, because his living room was rather lacking in furniture and messy, with books and files scattered everywhere. This was where Nathan began to admit that he didn't feel he was changing much at all, sitting with his knees bunched up to his chest and looking very small on Reid's bed, talking in a thin, sad voice about the thoughts and desires he still fought every day. And one night it got too late, and Nathan got too tired, drifted off to sleep while Reid was in the bathroom, and Reid covered him haphazardly with a blanket and curled up beside him still in his clothes, too tired himself to really think about it. 

It became routine, though, until it reached the point where they were under the covers together, in nothing but underwear and t-shirts, and Reid knows that it's more than friendship but he doesn't know quite what it _is_. All he knows is that he feels responsible for Nathan, and that Nathan needs him, and that when the kid turns up on his doorstep looking all pale and drawn and needing comfort, giving it seems like the only option Reid has. He's started being late for work in the mornings because he has to drop Nathan back home and he knows the team probably thinks he's using again, and dreads the moment that one of them will ask. He doesn't know how to explain the truth.

This idea, though, is the most difficult to explain of all. It makes a strange sort of sense in Reid's mind—giving Nathan a way to express his urges in a controlled environment—but he knows it's not sensible, knows that at best he's just prolonging the inevitable, and at worst, giving Nathan an even stronger appetite for something he's lusted after for years. And there's nothing to say he'll stop at this.

Reid sees the way something flares in Nathan's eyes, now, and he knows this is a warning sign—as if he hasn't had enough already—but he can feel his blood pounding heavy through his veins in a way he hasn't felt in so long, and he can't stop. 

"But—are you sure?" Nathan asks, but it's just a cursory gesture—Reid gets the very strong feeling that his response won't matter in the slightest, as Nathan is holding the little exacto-knife in hands that quiver with pure, eager anticipation and he's not even listening anymore, just gazing like a man possessed at the pale skin of Reid's thigh.

Even so, Reid whispers out a faint, "Yes." _Just do it,_ he thinks, but can't say the words, anxious, overcome with adrenaline.

Nathan's eyes flicker up to Reid's face for a split-second, and his tongue rolls quickly over his lips. He turns the knife in his hand, the metal glints briefly as it catches the light. Each second that ticks by, Reid knows he should try and put a stop to this. As sure as he is that it wouldn't make an ounce of difference, he knows he should at least try, because right now it feels like he's signing his own death warrant. He's at the mercy of someone who has fantasised for years about murder, and that someone is currently in possession of a weapon (while Reid is completely unarmed, vulnerable, perched on the edge of the bed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, pushed up to expose his skinny thighs).

"N-Nathan," Reid's voice skitters over the name, "Nathan—please—just—" _get it over with_ , he thinks, _just do it, so that it's_ done. 

He can't stand the waiting.

Nathan looks at him again, just a quick glance, and Reid sees that his eyes are dark with wanting and his lips are slightly parted, his breath coming quick, and he's so excited just from _this_ , just from seeing Reid scared and helpless. And Reid thinks about the psychology, because he can't not—he thinks about all of the serial killers, the sexual sadists, for whom _this_ is the ultimate turn-on: fear. He thinks of Tobias Hankel, of waiting for the belt to hit the tender soles of his feet, of waiting for the needle to sink into his arm, and he wonders what's _wrong_ with him, why he would possibly want to put himself in this position again.

He trusts Nathan more than he trusted the man with three people in his head, but that's already much more than he should—he knows that people who want to kill _want to kill_ , knows that better than anything, and he shouldn't try and tell himself he's safer here. 

But Nathan's hesitation makes him wonder, then, just for a moment, whether he's really going to do it. His eyes seem to show some uncertainty, perhaps, and Reid wants to give them both a chance to back out, so he starts to say Nathan's name, just manages to open his mouth and make the smallest of sounds before—

The sharp rush of pain thrills through him as Nathan lashes out, so quick and so sudden that it takes Reid a moment to even process it. Less of a cut, more of a _gash_ , a long slash of red across his thigh, blood welling up so fast that the cut is full of it by the time Reid looks, and it's dripping down between his legs, wetting the towels he'd spread out beneath him, blooming out across the pale fabric. It stings, _hard_ , and he can hear himself gasping and he thinks maybe he cried out when the blade met his skin. 

He realises then that the panting of breath is coming from Nathan, too, and he looks down at the boy crouched between his thighs and sees the knife _shaking_ in his hand like he's buzzing with energy, his expression dark and thrilled and threatening. 

"Can I—I need to—" Nathan stammers, words coming out in a rush, and he does it without waiting for an answer—slides his other hand across to the cut, touches it with tentative fingers, collects the droplets of blood on his fingertips. "Oh, god," he almost moans, smearing the blood down Reid's thigh.

He's had a taste of it now, Reid thinks, and he can't be stopped. So he's not surprised when Nathan slices the skin a second time, more slowly this time like he's savouring it, and when Reid jolts beneath him he gets a firm hand holding him down in response. The towels are wet under him, soaked with cooling blood, but the blood that trickles over his legs is hot and bright like the pain. After the third cut, the knife drops from Nathan's violently shaking hands, and then those same hands still and splay out across Reid's thigh, putting pressure on the fresh injuries, stroking, smoothing. 

He thinks of Nathan's old psych evaluation—he found the file, searched it out, slid the papers into another folder like they were a dirty secret and read them hunched over his desk. It was such a clinical account, of course, and Reid found himself wondering how the shy teenage boy actually phrased such awful, abhorrent things. The file said that Nathan brought himself to climax with thoughts of cutting people, feeling their blood, and, as he had homicidal fantasies which were strongly linked to his sexual urges, this should not have come as a surprise to Reid, should not have made Reid's stomach twist that way, in morbid curiosity and something stronger. Something that went far beyond professional interest. 

Nathan shuffles closer, chin sinking down onto Reid's bony knee, like he wants to get a closer look. And once again Reid knows, on a professional level, that he shouldn't be surprised when he feels Nathan's erection against his leg, but he flushes with it anyway, embarrassed, startled, scared—and Nathan presses insistently against him, eyes fixed on the damage he's done.

Reid takes a deep breath, tries to calm down, tries to focus on the fact that Nathan has _stopped_ , though the way he's touching him is making him flinch, bringing fresh bursts of pain. He has a horribly familiar feeling, remembers the countless times he and the team have had to talk an unsub into putting down their weapon or backing away from the scene, thinks of the way they're so cautious in the way they move and talk, not wanting to make any sudden movements in case the criminal freaks and attacks. He feels just like this, now, scared to say _anything_ or move an inch, not while the knife is still within reach and Nathan has that crazed look in his eyes, like he could do anything.

Nathan eases himself up, onto his knees, then settles back over him, one hand creeping down between his own legs and his other steady on Reid's thigh, smeared with blood. An image flashes back to Reid's mind, the image of his _own_ hands covered in blood—Nathan's blood, and he remembers the way it felt, the way Nathan's weak bleeding wrists felt under the tight grip of his hands, hot and wet with that slowing pulse against his skin. He saved his life. He saved his life, and now he's doing _this_.

"N—" Reid forces out, "Nathan."

This is a mistake. Nathan snaps out of it suddenly, and his hand snatches the knife back. There is a fresh cut on Reid's other thigh before he even has a chance to try and defend himself, and he cries out honestly and openly this time, in shock and in pain, the sound breaking at the end, raw. He goes to clutch at the wound—it hurts even more than the others, deeper perhaps—but Nathan shoves his hands away agitatedly, replaces them with his own, probing, making Reid squirm, weak and sore.

"Nathan, please," Reid stammers desperately.

He wants to try and pry the knife from Nathan's fingers, but he's _scared_ , scared that Nathan will lash out again, maybe actually stab him this time, and he's overwhelmed by that fear. He's always been wary around Nathan, of course, and he knew that doing this would be scary—but in this moment it honestly feels like one wrong move could lead to his death, and the full and certain realisation that Nathan might actually kill him almost bowls him over with its intensity. Nathan's eyes are dark and wild, and his fingers dig into Reid's thigh, worsening the flow of blood and sending another sharp shock of pain through Reid's body. He winces violently, instinctively pulling away, edging away across the bed as Nathan's hold loosens.

Nathan pushes him down onto his back, and he thinks of how he should try to stay calm, try not to show the fear he's feeling, because he knows it's only exciting Nathan more. But he can't seem to get anything under control, and when Nathan clambers up onto the bed over him, straddles him, his weight on Reid's tender, bleeding thighs, all Reid can do is stare up at him, mouth open, terrified and speechless. When Nathan leans down a little, shifts and steadies himself, Reid feels that hardness again, pushing at his stomach now, so hot and firm and solid it's almost _painful_.

He shuts his eyes when Nathan turns the knife over in his hand, dreading what's coming, not wanting to watch. His throat seizes up and he waits, hands fisted in the sheets. But what he feels is a slight, sharp tickle at the base of his neck between clavicles, and it takes him a moment to realise it's the blade's edge, gently running down over the skin of his chest down to his stomach, miming cutting him open from throat to navel. He shudders. When he opens his eyes, he sees a thin, faint red line marking him down the middle, a bisection. It's just the blood leftover on the knife, but as real as it looks to Reid, he knows it's not enough for Nathan. Nathan's teeth are gritted, and he's holding the knife so tightly his knuckles have gone white, the bones sticking out almost unnaturally under the pale skin.

"Nathan." Reid finds his voice. "Nathan." He says it quiet, gentle, like he's coaxing an animal. "Nathan. Please, put the knife down. _Please,_ " he begs.

He knows better than to try and wrestle it off him.

Nathan shakes his head once, decisive, and then more, quickly, vehemently. He brings the knife back up to Reid's chest, presses the blade to his breastbone but doesn't move, doesn't cut. Reid feels the sharpness of it all the same, digging into the skin, and his heart hammers beneath Nathan's clammy hand. The ache in his thighs echoes it, the injuries throbbing with his pulse. He realises, then, that Nathan is staring at him—not at the knife, but at _him_ , looking right into his eyes with an amazed expression on his face.

"I can feel your heart beating," he murmurs.

Reid nods, faintly.

"It's beating really fast." Nathan seems completely enthralled by this, his voice just an awed whisper.

"I know. I'm—frightened," Reid manages. 

The fixed look on Nathan's face is unnerving, his eyes unblinking. "Uh huh," he says faintly. He seems almost dazed.

"Nathan, please," Reid tries again. He's trying to stay completely still, because if he shifts just a tiny bit, the blade is going to cut him. "Please, Nathan, please put the knife down."

"I—I can't," Nathan forces out. His voice is high and tight and he isn't moving either, both of them frozen, stiff, tense. 

"Yes you can, Nathan," Reid says desperately, "you can, you don't want to do this, you can—"

"I do," Nathan speaks over him harshly, angrily, "I _do_ , I—"

Reid can't bear to hear it. "But you don't have to, Nathan." He speaks quickly—there's no time to form the perfect talk-down and he's sure as hell not going to be saved by back-up; the rest of the team aren't going to burst through the door to save him. "You don't have to do this, Nathan, you're better than this, you've been doing so well, just put the knife down, just—"

"I _can't_ , Dr. Reid," Nathan spits out, the old name slipping out in his panic even though Reid's been telling him for weeks to call him Spencer. There are tears in his eyes; the wetness glints in the light.

"If you truly wanted to do this, you'd have done it already," Reid goes on, trying to stay calm, but the words are spilling out and he prays it won't seem like he's baiting him. "You're resisting for a reason. Come on, Nathan. Put the knife down."

He thinks he sees Nathan's fingers loosen a little, and he takes his chance, reaches up and covers Nathan's hand with his own, as gently as he can. Gradually, Nathan's hold goes slack, and Reid eases his hand to their side. Nathan lets go, then, sits up and brings his hand to his face to rub at his eyes, muttering, swearing. Quickly, Reid shoves the knife across the bed, but he can't quite reach far enough to push it off the bed. He hopes it's sufficiently out of reach, because Nathan seems unpredictable right now, even to him.

"Fuck," Nathan hisses out, angry, frustrated.

"It's okay, it's okay, shh," Reid murmurs awkwardly. His heart still pounds, his chest stinging, and he can see the deep indent left in his skin. He's relieved, but not entirely. Nathan is pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, his breathing shaky and loud. "Shh, you did really well, it's okay—"

Suddenly, Nathan throws himself down over Reid, covers him with his body and buries his face in the crook of Reid's shoulder. Reid slowly becomes aware of other things again—he was so focused on the knife against his skin and so frozen in fear that everything else was whited out, but now—now he feels Nathan's hot breath, and his sweat making his t-shirt damp as it clings to Reid's own skin too. He feels the towels and sheets beneath them, soaked with blood, cold and sticking to the backs of his thighs. He feels Nathan's hair tickling his cheek. He can smell Nathan's sweat and soap and shampoo, and his own blood, sharp and strong.

"Shh, it's okay," Reid babbles again, reaches around to Nathan's back. He pats, feels stupid and tries to rub soothingly instead. Nathan is nearly sobbing, and Reid can tell how hard he's trying to hold back out of shame but his breathing is almost hysterical. "Nathan, it's okay, breathe, you're okay."

Nathan shifts, and Reid feels something else: that he's still hard, erection pressing against Reid's own crotch now, and Reid feels something twist deep down inside himself again, something sick and base and primal. His body doesn't care that Nathan was just seconds away from killing him; all it does is respond, instinctively, reflex reactions to stimuli and—Reid can cite the science as much as he likes, but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. 

His hips buck up just a little of their own accord, and Nathan's breath hitches. He sniffs, swallows, and eases himself up onto his hands without meeting Reid's eyes. He shifts again, just the tiniest of movements, and Reid is growing hard _fast_ beneath him, unable to stop himself. His hand is still resting against the small of Nathan's back, and he is suddenly acutely aware of that, the feel of the damp cotton against his fingers and the heat of Nathan's skin beneath it. 

"Are you okay?" Reid asks.

"Yeah," Nathan replies, his voice small. He pauses. "Are you—um—?"

"Yeah. Yes." Reid flushes, and then—"Sorry," because it feels like something he should apologise for, if not to Nathan then to himself.

"I just—" says Nathan, and then breaks off. He still hasn't looked up at Reid, he's looking down between their bodies instead, which is only making Reid colour more. "I need—" Nathan says, and then stops again, steadying himself on one hand and brushing the other down Reid's side, to his thighs, to the cuts which are beginning to scab over. 

Reid hears the way Nathan's breath catches in excitement as he strokes over the marks, but he knows it won't be enough. Nathan needs to see the damage he's done, because for this kind of sexual sadist, the visual aspects of the pain they inflict are almost more important than the tactile. In a flash, Reid remembers Mrs. Harris, flustered and grateful at the hospital the night Reid saved Nathan's life. She'd told them in a hushed, horrified voice what she'd found in her son's bedroom that night—pornography, she'd said, but with gruesome images stuck onto the pages, pictures of mutilated body parts all carefully cut out and taped onto the nude models. And once again, Reid was not surprised, but felt a strange heat in the pit of his belly at the thought of Nathan using such things as _masturbation material_ , and it didn't matter how completely commonplace that was for someone with Nathan's tendencies, because it made Reid feel sickly fascinated like he was learning such a thing for the very first time.

And sure enough, Nathan needs to see the cuts again now, because they're not just images pasted into a magazine, they're real and red and sore, and he sits up and cranes his neck back to look. Reid feels Nathan brush his fingers over them again, and he blanches at the touch, as the healing process is disturbed and one of the cuts breaks open, begins to bleed again. Nathan won't stop staring.

"Oh, god," he says, quietly, and to anyone else's ears it might sound like horror, like regret, _what-have-I-done_ , but Reid knows better, knows it's pure, heady arousal.

It's a textbook knowledge, of course, not based on any real experience. And maybe that's why it's so overwhelming to him now, to hear Nathan's voice so low and urgent like that, to feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against Reid's stomach. It's not _him_ , Reid knows, knows that Nathan is turned on by the pain he's inflicted, by the injuries and the blood and Reid's fear, but even so—having this effect on someone is new, and it thrills him.

Nathan digs his fingers in a little, and Reid groans instinctively, squirming. The movement causes friction against his aching erection, which feels _so_ good—better than it should, he thinks, but maybe it just seems that way, juxtaposed with the pain.

Suddenly, Nathan turns back to him, looks at him properly this time. He's chewing on his bottom lip, agitated, and his pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed. Reid's not sure he's ever seen anyone look quite so aroused before, and while it's exciting, it's still _scary_ , because Nathan's lust could easily interfere with his morals in this situation and it only makes things more risky.

"Are—are you okay?" Reid asks, because it's very quiet. He seems to be taking the route of pretending not to be aware of Nathan's current state.

"Yeah, just," Nathan bites out, and rubs the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He's trembling again. His palm is wet with Reid's blood, and Reid can see the thick scar across his wrist from his last experience with knives. He tries not to stare, and fails. "I just. Fuck. I'm sorry." He sighs heavily, shifting uncomfortably over Reid's hips, and Reid tries not to squirm.

"Don't be sorry," Reid says quietly. He's not entirely sure what Nathan's apologising for, but he can guess. "I understand."

Nathan opens his mouth, and then clamps his hand over it instead of saying anything more. He stares at Reid for a long moment, and then says, voice muffled against his fingers, "I'm just so— _fuck_."

"It's okay," Reid assures him, less hesitantly now. 

He moves to sit up, feeling like it's safe to do so, and Nathan slips a little further down Reid's body—onto his thighs, which hurts like hell. Reid doesn't want to make any sudden movements, but Nathan isn't moving at all now, and so when he sits up, he ends up with Nathan's face only inches from his own. 

"I, uh," he says, uncertainly, and then Nathan takes his hand away from his mouth and Reid sees that his lips are bright and shining, wet with Reid's own blood, and he forgets what he was going to say and just stares. Nathan's lips glisten, and Reid licks his own automatically, and everything is so stiflingly hot, the weight of Nathan on Reid's lap and that persistent stiffness against Reid's stomach. His heart is beating so fast it feels like there might be something wrong with it. The fear is melting down, evening out, into something else.

"It's okay," Reid says, hoarsely, averting his eyes. "M-maybe that's enough for tonight, maybe we should clean up and—I got some, I got some gauze and—" his voice is beginning to sound increasingly unsteady, wavering over the words, and he's staring at a random bloodstain on the bed instead of at Nathan's face, "—in the, in the bathroom there's some, um, antiseptic—"

His words die against Nathan's lips. First, there's Nathan's hands taking him roughly at the jaw to tilt his head back up, and then all there is is Nathan's _mouth_ , pressing hot and sure against Reid's own. It's a shock, and Reid lets out a weak noise which only serves to spur Nathan on, tongue slipping past Reid's lips, and Reid grapples awkwardly at the sheets and then at Nathan's back, tasting the hot metal of his own blood and struggling to keep up. Nathan rocks against him, and the friction against his cock combined with the friction against the _wounds_ is almost too much to handle—Reid whimpers and writhes, trying to simultaneously shy away from the touch and move into it.

"Oh, god," Nathan pants against Reid's lips before catching them in his own again, kissing him _fiercely_ , and it's nothing like Reid's ever felt. It's nothing like Lila, gentle and slow—this is all desperation and hunger and a clash of teeth; Nathan's kissing Reid like his _life_ depends on it, and it's overwhelming. Reid's never felt so wanted, and he's struggling to remember why this is a bad thing.

Nathan's hands slip from Reid's face and a moment later he feels them on his thighs, clutching again at the cut-up skin. Reid flinches violently and tries to pull back, but Nathan's thighs lock around his waist like a vice, legs crossing behind Reid's back and holding him there. Their eyes meet, and Reid gets another chill of fear flooding through him at the look on Nathan's face, remembering the danger he's in. Nathan's fingers rake over the injuries and he watches Reid's reaction intently, and Reid tries not to show how much it hurts but his lip quivers and he can't help but wince again, just a little. In response, he feels Nathan's erection digging into his stomach, harder than ever, and he darts a look down—sees the way Nathan's boxers are spotted with red and bulging at the crotch.

"Lie down," Nathan says, and Reid catches the way his voice trembles a little bit as he says it, "I'm—I'm sorry, I need—" and Reid doesn't know what to make of how much he's _apologising_ , thinking, out of habit, about signs of remorse. He gets another sharp chill as a distant part of his brain wonders how Nathan would dispose of his body, whether he'd turn himself in.

Nathan opens his legs enough for Reid to be able to lie back, and Reid does, easing himself back along the bed until only his feet hang off the edge. He's still half-hard in spite of himself, unable to get things under control. Nathan isn't giving him much of a chance—he parts Reid's legs enough for his own to fit between them and then settles himself over Reid's body again, hesitating for a split-second before kissing him, harsh and needy. He's bucking between Reid's legs, hips thrusting erratically, and when his erection pushes up alongside Reid's, Reid lets out a moan, unbidden. Then Nathan's hand is worming down by his side, clutching at Reid's thigh again, needing to feel, and this time Reid almost _whines_ , squirming beneath him. His pain just excites Nathan further, as he starts to grind down against Reid almost frantically. He stops momentarily to reach between his legs and shove his boxers down, just a little, just enough for Reid to catch a glimpse of flushed, slick, taut skin.

Reid catches Nathan's eye, but Nathan won't quite look at him. "Fuck, I'm—I'm sorry, can I—Dr. Reid—"

And Reid just forces out, " _Spencer_ ," because there are enough things wrong with this already without Nathan calling him that, and he doesn't know what Nathan is asking but it doesn't even matter, he knows Nathan is going to do it anyway, and—if past experience is any indication—Reid's probably going to _like_ it. He feels his face burning again, but the shame isn't strong enough to make him stop.

Nathan's hand twitches agitatedly, and then he's yanking Reid's boxers down too, clumsy and rushed, reaching in with blood-slick fingers to pull out Reid's cock roughly, like he _needs_ it, and Reid feels lightheaded and—and _stupid_ , so stupid, because this is risky and wrong and so, so irresponsible, and—

And then Nathan is spitting into his hand and stroking them both together, once, quick and harsh. The gap between their bodies is closed once again and this time Reid stops thinking and just _feels_. He feels the hot slide of Nathan against him, lubricated with saliva and pre-come and maybe a little bit of _blood_ , and it's not quite enough, but the way their skin catches and clings on the occasional downstroke feels _good_. It's so close, almost claustrophobic, like nothing Reid's ever experienced, just completely unscientific and instinctive and _animal_. 

He's moving with Nathan now, hips snapping up off the bed as he rocks against Nathan in quick clumsy jerks. He's so caught up in the feeling—back arched, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, silently mouthing nonsensical things—that it's a long time before he realises Nathan has the knife again. He feels it before he sees it, senses a disruption in Nathan's rhythm first which he foolishly ignores, and then feels Nathan's knuckles and the cold metal handle of the knife brush his hip. He freezes, opens his eyes instantly, and he thinks he sees guilt on Nathan's face, somewhere beneath the lust that clouds his features.

"I'm sorry—I need it—I—" Nathan stammers, and Reid feels the slight flick of the blade against the skin of his hip, just a gentle nick like Nathan's hands are moving of their own accord.

If it was dangerous before, that's nothing compared to now, with Nathan blinded by his own arousal, less in control of his urges than ever, not to mention clumsy from the constant shallow thrusting of his hips seeking friction.

But Reid doesn't say no.

What he says is "N-Nathan," and even to his own ears he sounds fucking terrified, so it's no wonder that a pained, desperate expression crosses Nathan's face and the blade touches down on Reid's hip again. 

"I can't stop it, Dr. Reid, I can't I can't I can't—" Nathan babbles, red-faced and wild-eyed as Reid sees his knuckles whiten again, and then the knife is pressed down and Reid feels it clearly this time, and _hears_ it, the slow sharp slide of the blade's edge through his skin, cutting a long stripe from hip down to thigh.

Reid lets out a low moan, and Nathan fumbles with the knife, trying to keep a grip on it and collect the gathering droplets of blood on his fingertips at the same time. He bears down on Reid, hips churning frantically, and there's another cut and another and Reid feels the constant sting of it, the blood rolling slow down his thighs, wetting the fabric of his boxers. Everything is a distraction—the pleasure from the pain, the pain from the pleasure, until it's _maddening_ , until all he can do is cant his hips weakly up, up, up, the two of them violently rhythmless and Nathan making frantic little eager sounds in his ear as he feels the blood flow through his fingers.

Reid comes first, which is another thing that shouldn't happen—Nathan's desires are so intense that something like this should be able to make him climax in an instant, but it's like he's savouring it, like he's using whatever control he has left to make this last _longer_ instead of put a stop to it, like he's afraid he won't get another chance. But Reid—well, Reid feels like his every nerve is on fire, his body hypersensitive and overstimulated, feeling the sharp jab of pain pull him back from the edge again and again, until he needs to come so badly that finally it _pushes_ him over, with a cut that slices under his hip. And then all he hears is white noise and his heart like a drum as he wavers, topples, _surrenders_ , all shudder and gasp beneath the tense press of Nathan's body.

He hears Nathan's voice like he's underwater, at first, coming around much too slowly and finding it difficult to focus. Then he slowly becomes aware of Nathan pushing the knife further up the bed, towards him.

"Take it," Reid realises he's saying, and he seems crazed, frantic, "take it, please, I can't—"

Reid gathers himself together and grabs the knife, flings it off the bed quickly and Nathan seems to breathe a sigh of relief which Reid is too spent to echo. He's too dazed to realise how close a call that might have been, and distantly he knows how awful that is, how he should _never_ have let his guard down, but now Nathan—Nathan is bringing himself off, greedy hands touching Reid everywhere, smearing the blood over Reid's skin and then sliding his cock after it, muttering and cursing almost hysterically. And then he's _coming_ , in a sudden burst, body lurching violently forwards as he spills, messy, over Reid's stomach. Reid has never seen anybody come before, and he's captivated by it—the way Nathan's eyelids flutter, the sound he makes that wracks his frame.

But just as quickly as it happened, it's over, and Reid feels hot, sticky, disgusting, exhausted, and so sore he can barely cope with it. Nathan, though, seems almost exhilarated, mouth breaking into an almost disturbing grin as he milks the last of his orgasm from himself and then wipes his hands clean on his boxers. He seems relieved, and Reid can sort of recognise that even in his current state—there's been so much build-up, here, this is something Nathan has wanted to experience for so long, and even though he didn't kill anybody tonight, he still let out a lot of old tension that he's spent such a long time fighting.

But Reid feels a chill, coming down from the high of orgasm and becoming steadily more aware of how much pain he's in, his hips and thighs almost numb with it until he makes the slightest movement and then it's a fresh throb through his whole body as the cuts pull. He start to sit up, and Nathan gets the hint and clambers off him. Reid edges to the end of the bed, too fast, wincing, and grabs one of the blood-soaked towels to dab pointlessly at the injuries. He takes a deep breath and stands up, hitching his boxers back up around his hips and trying to ignore the painful pressure of the elastic waistband on the cuts. He turns back, and he sees Nathan curled in on himself on the bed, legs tucked neatly in, arms wrapped around them and his chin between his knees. The bed around him is an absolute mess—strewn with bloody towels, sheets soaked through where there weren't any—but he looks almost innocent, startlingly young all of a sudden.

"It kinda looks like a crime scene in here, huh?" Nathan says, joking maybe, but Reid's stomach twists.

He was, at least, semi-prepared for this—he has first-aid supplies set up in the bathroom for immediate after-care, he chose his thighs as the best place for the injuries because he knew they would be the most easily hidden, he set down towels, he made sure Nathan knew to avoid major arteries, and he knows how to help the cuts heal cleanly to avoid bad scarring. But as always, it's all practical—he didn't think about how it would _feel_ , couldn't predict just how sore he'd be. He didn't think about the fact that the healing process is going to hurt and he's going to have to go to work with bandages wrapped tightly around his legs, trying not to wince with each movement.

"Are—are you okay?" Nathan asks in a small, worried voice.

"Yeah, yeah, I..." Reid trails off.

"Was that okay?"

Reid isn't sure how to answer that just yet. He tries to organise his thoughts. Can't. "I think so," is what he goes for in the end, but he doesn't sound convinced even of that.

Nathan nods. He's rocking back and forth, Reid realises then, just ever so slightly. "Would, um," Nathan says, and his fingers tap against his legs irritably, "would you let me do it again? I mean—not now, obviously, but I—I just, I'm going to need to do it again, and I—"

Something inside of Reid sinks. He thinks he must have been prepared for this, too, but it doesn't feel like it. "I can't think about that right now, Nathan," he replies, a little sharply.

Nathan clearly can, though—his eyes are darting back and forth, he can't stop looking at the cuts he's left on Reid's body and the blood all over the bed, and Reid wouldn't be surprised if he was aroused again already.

"I need to, uh, clean myself up," Reid hears himself say.

Nathan is on his feet in an instant. "Can I help? I think I should help, I mean, it's...it's my fault, you know, so..."

And Reid doesn't _know_ —he doesn't know Nathan's motives, doesn't know if this is because he feels guilty or if he just wants another chance to examine the damage he's done, if he wants to see the water turn red and what the cuts look like when they're all cleaned off.

"Okay," he says, though, eventually, as Nathan stands there fidgeting in front of him. "Okay, can you go and fill the sink?" His voice sounds shaky again. "With cold water, not with hot—hot will just aggravate the blood flow, heat makes the vessels near the surface of the skin dilate and—" he cuts himself off, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. He feels a little bit like he's about to cry.

"Sp—Spencer?" Nathan asks nervously. He comes closer, hesitantly reaches up and eases Reid's hand down from his face. He holds it in his own, strokes it, surprisingly tender though Reid can see his own blood dried dark under the boy's fingernails. Nathan drops his eyes. "Thank you. I mean it. I—you're the only one who really...accepts, you know, who I am, and...this is..." he stumbles over his words, "I just. Thank you. Really."

Reid nods faintly.

"Sink full of cold water," Nathan says, then, nodding decisively and letting go of Reid's hand.

Reid watches him go, and then turns back to the bed, staring at the way the blood spreads over the pale bedding, maybe reaching right through to the mattress beneath. It's true—his own bedroom really does look like a crime scene. He's just not sure he's ready to see himself as the victim.


End file.
